Same night | Galley, San Niklas
POV: Alfie Gambon
The galley was the warmest part of the San Niklas, but that night it felt cold.
Its walls sweated old grease, and the air hung thick with garlic, engine oil, and salt that never dried. A string of yellow bulbs buzzed overhead, their light a sickly hue, casting long shadows over the dented counters and stained enamelware.
The hum of the generator filtered in from the bulkhead—constant, low, like a tired breath drawn from something too old to die.
Alfie sat at the long table, elbows on either side of a chipped plate. The bench creaked beneath him. The cigarette burn near his knee still smoldered faintly where someone had crushed it earlier. Ejo sat across from him, hunched forward, shoulders up around his ears. He hadn't touched his food.
They ate in silence.
It wasn't the comfortable kind of silence—the kind shared by men so accustomed to each other's presence that words become unnecessary. No, this was heavier, dense with unspoken things. It felt as though they'd all heard the same scream in a dream, silently agreeing never to mention it.
The air was punctuated only by the occasional clink of a spoon against a bowl, metal tapping ceramic with a hollow finality. A boot heel scraped the floor, grating softly in the stillness, while the generator hummed—a steady, dull drone, like a lullaby whispered by something hidden deep within the pipes.
Ejo stirred his bowl absently, his thoughts as hollow as the vessel before him. No fish—just rice slicked with old oil, its sheen a bitter reminder of better days. His spoon made lazy circles, each motion a quiet testament to the emptiness gnawing at him, as if swirling nothing into nothing could somehow fill the void inside.
Captain Mateo sat at the far end of the table, beneath a rusted bulkhead fan that no longer turned.
His elbows were braced wide like the ship itself might list if he moved. In his hands, a ceramic mug, chipped near the lip, holding the last of the instant kopi. Steam rose slow and stubborn, curling into his weathered face. That face was stone—brown and furrowed like cracked earth in the dry season. His eyes were hooded, the corners marked by salt and sleep.
He didn't speak nor eat.
Mateo had been sailing long before any of them had grown chest hair. His experience spanned across rigs, trawlers, smuggling runs, and rescue hauls. Whispers circulated about the time he piloted a ghost ship into port, its crew mysteriously vanished mid-voyage.
No one dared make light of it.
When he spoke, men listened.
Alfie waited.
One crewman grumbled at the flickering radio, slapping it like that might fix its hiss. Another cursed under his breath about the last haul—empty nets, too much bycatch, something wrong in the water.
The clatter of a fork echoed loud, then died.
Alfie shifted forward, voice pitched low.
""Cap…"
The word rasped through the tense air. Mateo didn't bother looking up, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond. Alfie shot a quick glance at Ejo but soon dropped his eyes back to his half-eaten fish, as if the plate could anchor him.
"…you ever see weird things out here? In these waters?"
He left it at that, not specifying. He didn't need to. Among men like them, 'weird' carried its own gravity—it whispered of lights where none should shine, voices with no mouths to speak, things that didn't belong. The captain's thumb stilled mid-tap against his battered mug. Nearby, an older crewman's spoon halted above his bowl, suspended not by surprise but by the weight of memory.
Silence fell, thick and immediate.
Even the radio's persistent static seemed to retreat, fading as if it understood it wasn't welcome.
Mateo brought the mug to his lips, slow.
Sipped.
Set it back down with the careful rhythm of a man who had done this a thousand times—not from habit, but from ritual.
Mateo's thumb tapped twice against the cold metal surface.
Tak. Tak.
It wasn't nerves—just marking time, the same rhythmic tap sailors use when navigating their thoughts, picking words with the precision of stepping through a minefield.
"Plenty of lights down here—squid, plankton," he said, voice dry and flat, as if reciting facts from a distant memory. It was neither dismissive nor curious, simply neutral, as though describing rain falling on a forgotten grave.
Alfie nodded slowly, the motion a silent permission for Mateo to continue.
"'Di naman isda, o pusit," Alfie murmured softly.
"Not that kind," Mateo replied, his gaze distant. "Not drifting. They moved—with purpose. Seven lights, spiraling in a deliberate pattern." He swallowed hard, the weight of his words hanging in the dim light.
"Like they knew we were watching."
A long pause stretched across the room.
The dim glow of the ship's lanterns flickered, casting long shadows across weary faces. One of the older crewmen—Doming from Bacolod—murmured something in Ilonggo. A prayer, or a warning. Perhaps both. His words hung in the heavy air until the man beside him jabbed an elbow sharply into his ribs. It wasn't a joke. It wasn't friendly.
"Don't say that out loud," he hissed, eyes darting to the dark beyond the deck.
Mateo finally raised his gaze. His eyes were dark, unblinking, reflecting none of the flickering light. He didn't bother to ask what Alfie saw. Just: "Where?"
"Sundown. Beneath the net line—where the trench drops." Alfie's voice grew quieter as he leaned forward, the memory tightening around him. "At least seven lights. Blue. Spiral." He hesitated, visibly shivering as if the memory clawed at his spine.
"Then… they spoke."
The ship seemed to hold its breath. Chairs ceased creaking. Mouths stopped chewing. Even the youngest deckhand, mid-laugh, let the sound die in his throat. The radio hissed—a brief, sharp static—then fell silent. The familiar hum returned, but no voices followed.
Only listening.
"You mean… people?" Mateo's voice cut through the tension.
"No, sir," Alfie replied, his voice low but steady.
"Not people. Voices. Mine. Ejo's. The exact words we said—pero galing sa tubig. Like the ocean… played us back."
He glanced at Ejo, whose face was pale and pinched. The boy nodded slowly, his trembling hand barely able to hold his spoon.
"Swear to God, kuya," Ejo whispered. "It was me. My voice. Hindi biro. Hindi echo. It was real."
Silence settled again, thick and oppressive. No one dared to laugh.
Mateo sat motionless, his jaw clenching just once, barely noticeable, as the hum of the ocean seemed to echo their unspoken fear.His face didn't shift, but something behind his eyes flickered—like a shadow passed behind glass.
His thumb had been tapping the mug out of habit.
Now it stopped.
Alfie leaned in, the flickering light above them casting fleeting shadows. It blinked once, then steadied, a fragile beacon in the dim room.
"That's why I'm asking," Alfie said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You've been in these waters longer than any of us. You've seen what doesn't show up on charts."
Though he didn't say it aloud, the plea hung in the silence that followed: Tell me I'm not crazy.
Mateo exhaled slowly through his nose, as if releasing smoke that had settled deep in his bones. He pushed back his plate, the scrape of ceramic against metal unnervingly loud in the stillness. Leaning back, the stool beneath him groaned softly, the only protest in the quiet room.
No one else moved.
When Mateo finally spoke, his voice was quiet, flat, carrying the weight of things left unsaid.
"You boys know why they call this run Harvestfield?"
Jonas, a tired-eyed deckhand trying to break the tension, shrugged with a forced grin. "'Cause the fish come easy?" he ventured. But the grin faltered, fading before it reached his lips. No one laughed. Mateo shook his head slowly, his expression somber. "That name didn't come from us," he said quietly. "Didn't come from the locals either."
Leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice dropped to a measured, serious tone. "It was the Americans. 1944. War still raging. They were out here, running deep-sea mapping—quiet work. Big ship. No flags, no announcements. Everything hush-hush." His thumb traced lazy circles along the rim of his mug as he continued, "They named this stretch Harvestfield. Not for fish. Not for bounty."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, reverent and heavy with meaning.
"Bones."
The word landed like lead, stark and unembellished. No flourish. Just raw truth. The clatter of forks ceased. Every eye fixed on Mateo, waiting, breath held in the charged silence. "Maybe whales?" someone murmured weakly from behind, not even a proper question—just a fragile theory thrown into the void. "Red tide, maybe… or pollution," another voice offered, equally tentative.
Mateo didn't blink, didn't waver. "Whales don't dig graves." The words sank into the galley like an anchor, solid and immovable.
Final.
Even the air seemed heavier.
Same night | Galley, San Niklas
POV: Alfie Gambon
The galley was the warmest part of the San Niklas, but that night it felt cold.
Its walls sweated old grease, and the air hung thick with garlic, engine oil, and salt that never dried. A string of yellow bulbs buzzed overhead, their light a sickly hue, casting long shadows over the dented counters and stained enamelware.
The hum of the generator filtered in from the bulkhead—constant, low, like a tired breath drawn from something too old to die.
Alfie sat at the long table, elbows on either side of a chipped plate. The bench creaked beneath him. The cigarette burn near his knee still smoldered faintly where someone had crushed it earlier. Ejo sat across from him, hunched forward, shoulders up around his ears. He hadn't touched his food.
They ate in silence.
It wasn't the comfortable kind of silence—the kind shared by men so accustomed to each other's presence that words become unnecessary. No, this was heavier, dense with unspoken things. It felt as though they'd all heard the same scream in a dream, silently agreeing never to mention it.
The air was punctuated only by the occasional clink of a spoon against a bowl, metal tapping ceramic with a hollow finality. A boot heel scraped the floor, grating softly in the stillness, while the generator hummed—a steady, dull drone, like a lullaby whispered by something hidden deep within the pipes.
Ejo stirred his bowl absently, his thoughts as hollow as the vessel before him. No fish—just rice slicked with old oil, its sheen a bitter reminder of better days. His spoon made lazy circles, each motion a quiet testament to the emptiness gnawing at him, as if swirling nothing into nothing could somehow fill the void inside.
Captain Mateo sat at the far end of the table, beneath a rusted bulkhead fan that no longer turned.
His elbows were braced wide like the ship itself might list if he moved. In his hands, a ceramic mug, chipped near the lip, holding the last of the instant kopi. Steam rose slow and stubborn, curling into his weathered face. That face was stone—brown and furrowed like cracked earth in the dry season. His eyes were hooded, the corners marked by salt and sleep.
He didn't speak nor eat.
Mateo had been sailing long before any of them had grown chest hair. His experience spanned across rigs, trawlers, smuggling runs, and rescue hauls. Whispers circulated about the time he piloted a ghost ship into port, its crew mysteriously vanished mid-voyage.
No one dared make light of it.
When he spoke, men listened.
Alfie waited.
One crewman grumbled at the flickering radio, slapping it like that might fix its hiss. Another cursed under his breath about the last haul—empty nets, too much bycatch, something wrong in the water.
The clatter of a fork echoed loud, then died.
Alfie shifted forward, voice pitched low.
""Cap…"
The word rasped through the tense air. Mateo didn't bother looking up, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond. Alfie shot a quick glance at Ejo but soon dropped his eyes back to his half-eaten fish, as if the plate could anchor him.
"…you ever see weird things out here? In these waters?"
He left it at that, not specifying. He didn't need to. Among men like them, 'weird' carried its own gravity—it whispered of lights where none should shine, voices with no mouths to speak, things that didn't belong. The captain's thumb stilled mid-tap against his battered mug. Nearby, an older crewman's spoon halted above his bowl, suspended not by surprise but by the weight of memory.
Silence fell, thick and immediate.
Even the radio's persistent static seemed to retreat, fading as if it understood it wasn't welcome.
Mateo brought the mug to his lips, slow.
Sipped.
Set it back down with the careful rhythm of a man who had done this a thousand times—not from habit, but from ritual.
Mateo's thumb tapped twice against the cold metal surface.
Tak. Tak.
It wasn't nerves—just marking time, the same rhythmic tap sailors use when navigating their thoughts, picking words with the precision of stepping through a minefield.
"Plenty of lights down here—squid, plankton," he said, voice dry and flat, as if reciting facts from a distant memory. It was neither dismissive nor curious, simply neutral, as though describing rain falling on a forgotten grave.
Alfie nodded slowly, the motion a silent permission for Mateo to continue.
"'Di naman isda, o pusit," Alfie murmured softly.
"Not that kind," Mateo replied, his gaze distant. "Not drifting. They moved—with purpose. Seven lights, spiraling in a deliberate pattern." He swallowed hard, the weight of his words hanging in the dim light.
"Like they knew we were watching."
A long pause stretched across the room.
The dim glow of the ship's lanterns flickered, casting long shadows across weary faces. One of the older crewmen—Doming from Bacolod—murmured something in Ilonggo. A prayer, or a warning. Perhaps both. His words hung in the heavy air until the man beside him jabbed an elbow sharply into his ribs. It wasn't a joke. It wasn't friendly.
"Don't say that out loud," he hissed, eyes darting to the dark beyond the deck.
Mateo finally raised his gaze. His eyes were dark, unblinking, reflecting none of the flickering light. He didn't bother to ask what Alfie saw. Just: "Where?"
"Sundown. Beneath the net line—where the trench drops." Alfie's voice grew quieter as he leaned forward, the memory tightening around him. "At least seven lights. Blue. Spiral." He hesitated, visibly shivering as if the memory clawed at his spine.
"Then… they spoke."
The ship seemed to hold its breath. Chairs ceased creaking. Mouths stopped chewing. Even the youngest deckhand, mid-laugh, let the sound die in his throat. The radio hissed—a brief, sharp static—then fell silent. The familiar hum returned, but no voices followed.
Only listening.
"You mean… people?" Mateo's voice cut through the tension.
"No, sir," Alfie replied, his voice low but steady.
"Not people. Voices. Mine. Ejo's. The exact words we said—pero galing sa tubig. Like the ocean… played us back."
He glanced at Ejo, whose face was pale and pinched. The boy nodded slowly, his trembling hand barely able to hold his spoon.
"Swear to God, kuya," Ejo whispered. "It was me. My voice. Hindi biro. Hindi echo. It was real."
Silence settled again, thick and oppressive. No one dared to laugh.
Mateo sat motionless, his jaw clenching just once, barely noticeable, as the hum of the ocean seemed to echo their unspoken fear.His face didn't shift, but something behind his eyes flickered—like a shadow passed behind glass.
His thumb had been tapping the mug out of habit.
Now it stopped.
Alfie leaned in, the flickering light above them casting fleeting shadows. It blinked once, then steadied, a fragile beacon in the dim room.
"That's why I'm asking," Alfie said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You've been in these waters longer than any of us. You've seen what doesn't show up on charts."
Though he didn't say it aloud, the plea hung in the silence that followed: Tell me I'm not crazy.
Mateo exhaled slowly through his nose, as if releasing smoke that had settled deep in his bones. He pushed back his plate, the scrape of ceramic against metal unnervingly loud in the stillness. Leaning back, the stool beneath him groaned softly, the only protest in the quiet room.
No one else moved.
When Mateo finally spoke, his voice was quiet, flat, carrying the weight of things left unsaid.
"You boys know why they call this run Harvestfield?"
Jonas, a tired-eyed deckhand trying to break the tension, shrugged with a forced grin. "'Cause the fish come easy?" he ventured. But the grin faltered, fading before it reached his lips. No one laughed. Mateo shook his head slowly, his expression somber. "That name didn't come from us," he said quietly. "Didn't come from the locals either."
Leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice dropped to a measured, serious tone. "It was the Americans. 1944. War still raging. They were out here, running deep-sea mapping—quiet work. Big ship. No flags, no announcements. Everything hush-hush." His thumb traced lazy circles along the rim of his mug as he continued, "They named this stretch Harvestfield. Not for fish. Not for bounty."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, reverent and heavy with meaning.
"Bones."
The word landed like lead, stark and unembellished. No flourish. Just raw truth. The clatter of forks ceased. Every eye fixed on Mateo, waiting, breath held in the charged silence. "Maybe whales?" someone murmured weakly from behind, not even a proper question—just a fragile theory thrown into the void. "Red tide, maybe… or pollution," another voice offered, equally tentative.
Mateo didn't blink, didn't waver. "Whales don't dig graves." The words sank into the galley like an anchor, solid and immovable.
Final.
Even the air seemed heavier.